If only Terry was still alive to pay for her sins once again.
Since she wasn’t, Nina would have to do.
MAN, THE HEAT was brutal. But then again, the weather in Rio de Janeiro was known for being brutal, even in the winter month of July.
Winter being relative of course, especially in the tropics.
Though the air came off the ocean and should have been cool, it wasn’t; but after four years in Brazil, Rick Singleton considered himself a Carioca—a native—and hardly felt a thing.
In truth, he hardly felt anything anymore, and that was how he liked it. He’d definitely come to fit into the South American way of life, where everything was casual, come-what-may, and absolutely pleasure-based.
Not many would consider their job pleasure-based, but Rick did. As a bounty hunter, he lived for the thrill of the chase—not to mention the money he got paid for finding his man.
Or in this case, woman.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the hazy Polaroid of a couple taken two Carnivals back. The woman with her feathery mask had eyes only for the man holding her close. They looked excited, anticipatory, and given the man’s hot gaze, they were headed for a night of passion.
Rick didn’t know the woman’s name. All he knew was that Mitch Barnes, the man in the picture, had hired him through Finders Keepers, a private investigation agency in Texas, to find her. They’d spent one night together, she and Mitch, and the man was desperate, evidenced both by the ridiculous amount of money he’d offered Rick, and the tone of his voice when he talked about his mystery woman.
He obviously cared a great deal about her.
Given the hordes of tourists that came to Brazil every year to partake in Carnival’s decadent celebration, Rick doubted the woman even lived in Rio, but for the money he’d do his best to find her. He had no clues other than the elaborate necklace she wore.
Mitch, an injured and recovering FBI agent now living in San Antonio, hadn’t known anything about the hand-wrought gold-and-emerald necklace, except that the woman looked gorgeous in it. Apparently their one night together had produced more than just a wild heat and passion. It had also produced a baby, a fact Mitch hadn’t been aware of until he’d discovered the baby girl left on his neighbor’s doorstep was his.
Now more than ever Mitch wanted to find the woman.
That was Rick’s job. Not much to go on, but he’d worked on less. He hadn’t screwed up a case since his ultimate failure four years prior.
Four years.
It was hard to believe it had been so long, and if there’d been any emotion left in him, any at all, he’d ache at the memory.
But his heart was as good as dead. Nothing got to him, not anymore.
He’d find the missing woman, no matter what he had to do, then get paid and move on. No sweat.
No looking back.
To that end, he stood in the middle of a particularly seedy favela, one of Rio’s many shanty towns, where one fifth of the population crammed together, struggling daily just to scrape by. The run-down cities within a city sat precariously perched on the steep hillside on either side of Rio, seemingly poised to slide down the sharp cliffs. Contrary to Rio itself, which arguably had the most gorgeous vistas in all the world, there was little beauty to be found here.
Rick stared down would-be pickpockets and petty thieves, knowing the first law in a place like this was to see nothing and hear nothing.
And keep out of trouble.
If someone pulled a gun, or even a knife, he was on his own, as all government law and order stopped at the entrance to most favelas. Having been first a Navy SEAL and then a federal marshal in another life, Rick wasn’t concerned. He could take care of himself.
“I’m looking for a woman,” he said in Portuguese to his informant, Juan, a well-known fence and all-around low-life con artist who’d sooner sell his own mother than go to jail for his petty crimes.
“A woman?” Juan shoved his hands into his pockets and spoke in heavily accented English. “There’s millions of people in Brazil, half of them women. Pick one.”
“This one.” Rick held out the picture Finders Keepers had sent him.
Juan stared at it. “Nice.”
“Do you know her?”
“I didn’t mean the woman.” Juan let out a crusty laugh that told Rick he’d been smoking at least half his life. “The necklace. It’s similar to O Coração de Amante.”
“The what?”
Juan rolled his eyes. “The Lover’s Heart,” he said in English. “The original is in a museum somewhere, but clever remakes are popular with the riqueza. You know, the wealthy.” He pulled the photo closer. “Either way, it’s a very rare piece.” He scratched his chin, eyes shining with speculation. “One could get rich off a piece like that, if it’s real.”
Given the woman’s aristocratic beauty and dress, Rick doubted the necklace was anything but genuine. If he could trace it... “Where would I get another like it?”
“Ah, now you’re talking.”
“I mean legally.”
“Oh.” He sighed with disappointment. “Well, I’d bet my entire day’s take—” He faltered at the steely, very hard cop look Rick shot him. “Er, I mean my week’s salary, man. Salary. I’m not on the take—”
“The necklace, Juan.”
“If it’s the real deal, it came from the Monteverde’s.”
“Monteverde’s?”
Face carefully blank, Juan held out his hand, palm up.
Rick swore, searched his pockets, then slapped some reals into Juan’s outstretched palm.
Juan pocketed the money and held out his hand again. “Try American dollars. They go further.”
“It had better be good,” Rick warned, going back to his wallet.
“Always.”
When Rick greased his palm with more bills, American this time, Juan gave him a grin that was missing more than one tooth. “Monteverde is the name of a famous Brazilian gem family. They have a huge business. An entire building in Ipanema, right on the beach. You might have seen it, it’s the ritziest place out there. All That Glitters. They cater to people with too much money on their hands.”
“Yeah.” Rick rarely spent time in Rio’s money belt. “Thanks. Stay clean, Juan.”
“Sure,” he vowed before slinking off.
Rick let him go, thinking with any luck he’d find the mystery woman by the end of the day and have a nice, fat wallet. Even better, he could be on another case by this time tomorrow. He straddled his motorcycle and drove down the steep, unpaved hills of no-man’s-land, leaving the dark alleys of the favela behind. Within five minutes he drove into another world entirely, where throngs of people walked beautiful beaches half-nude, laughing, talking, running, playing without a care.
Surrounded by tall, majestic mountains, the ocean bay glittered a brilliant azure blue, its beaches made so scenic by palm trees and tropical flowers.
High above on the closest mountain peak towered a 130-foot statue of Christ, arms nearly as wide as he was tall, looking down on one and all, sinners and saints. The scene never